“You’re really going to do this again?” he said in a whisper.
Mom crossed her arms, her mouth nearly twisted in amusement. Daring. Taunting. Baiting.
“I have to look at her every day, don’t I?”
I’m not sure if it was Moni or Dad who asked me to leave the kitchen. But dinner was over, and Moni made sure we slept in her room that night.
She let us each hold a flashlight as she draped a blanket over us, her face glowing. The shadows on the walls were comforting, not frightening. We were in our own world. A cave that even the troubling noises below could not infiltrate. At least that was our hope . . .
“I tell you old Korean story now,” she said, bringing us in closer with her arms.
Angry voices floated up. A crash and then silence. Another shout.
Moni talked louder in Korean:
“It is a traditional one. It is called The Ungrateful Tiger. But—I am going to tell it to you how my father told it to me. And his father told it to him. A little different than most tell it. A little wiser of a version, I think.
“A tiger menaced a village. One day, the villagers decided to make a trap. They dug a deep pit and covered it with leaves. They put a delicious piece of meat on top.
“And they waited.”
A furious female scream shot through from downstairs. Moni leaned in closer. So close her face was inches from ours, the words from her story hot as they came out.
“The tiger fell for the trap. Down, down, down he went. He was stuck and cried out for help. He called out for days but of course no one cared. Finally, a boy stopped to listen.
“‘Promise you won’t eat me? I will help you then.’
“‘Yes, yes, I promise!’ pleaded the tiger.
“The boy lowered a great stick down. The tiger leapt up.
“‘Aha! Now I am free. And I have a delicious snack too. My lucky day.’
“The boy was in despair. ‘But you promised you would not eat me!’”
A loud thud and then shouting. She wiped away the wetness on our faces and a tear of her own. She put her head down and then looked up, straight into our eyes. Determined, her love was soaring. Boundless.
“‘Silly boy. Everyone knows a tiger is always hungry,’ said the tiger, licking his chops.
“‘Wait! Let us ask this passing rabbit whether you should eat me,’ the boy pleaded.
“‘Fine,’ said the tiger, loving this game.
“The rabbit paused to survey the situation. ‘Hmmm. I think I must see what happened exactly in order to make my decision.’
“The tiger eagerly leaped back into the pit to show him just that. When he realized he was stuck, he roared with rage.”
She pulled us in to her chest and held on tight. We burrowed in deeper, and she heaved a deep sigh.
“Now, my babies . . . pay attention and remember this. You can’t trap a tiger just by catching him. You have to make him think he has won.”
She kissed the tops of our heads.
“Only then have you truly trapped him.”
CHAPTER 20
ISLA
1997
I was going to be eleven in a few weeks. Mom kept asking me what costume she should put together, but I didn’t know what to ask for. I was too young for anything glamorous but too old to be cutesy. I was in the wonderful limbo of preteenhood, where I fit into nothing and would continue to be ill defined, slowly becoming an interloper in the land of childhood purity.
Sawyer and I were placed in the same class that year—which would have been great had we not been awarded the most crotchety of all fifth-grade teachers, Mrs. Stanhope. She had a perpetual sourpuss expression and sniffed harshly at any hint of a giggle or smile in class. The only student she liked was Oliver, which was odd because he was the worst student. I always thought she took pity on him because he was so small and pale. Even The Stanhope, as most called her—like a ship that was fated to destroy us—had some minuscule amount of feelings.
Sawyer elbowed me before math one day. “I forgot my math sheet.”
I widened my eyes. “What? Did you not do it?”
My alarm was not unwarranted. Mrs. Stanhope did not spare any shame for those who forgot their homework.
“I did it. But I fell asleep at the kitchen table finishing it last night. I must have forgotten to put it in my backpack.” He glumly shook his head as if resigned to his fate. “I bet it’s still sitting there.”
I glanced up at Mrs. Stanhope, who was twitching her shoulders and clapping her hands to get our attention. This would not be good.
“Try checking your bag again,” I urged, keeping my eyes on her.
“Trust me, I turned it inside out looking. It’s not there. Stanhope’s going to eat me alive,” he muttered.
